Lost Horizon

My Dear Princess and Dear Fellow,

We are at that stage of the Xmas break where my sleeping patterns are all over the place and I do not quite know what day it is. 

Mo left us at about noon and I immediately had another nap. I feel very tired and a little out of sorts. I'm not sure why this is. 

"Maybe it's just old age," I ventured.

"I refuse to accept this," replied Caro.

So there you have it. I'm not yet old. This is a shame as I was planning on re-using this excuse for everything from here on, including forgetting what I came into the room for, and for repeating the same story five times to the same person.

However, my point is that I spent most of today asleep and don't have much for you. Other than I was musing on Christmas 1987 from when I was a mere 18 years old. 

These are the years you don't know much about because I don't talk about them much ever. The reason is this; 1987 was a horrible year. I moved out/was thrown out after a massive row with my mum. 

Looking back, I see now that the argument was in part fuelled by her anger at my dad (he'd left her a couple of years earlier, but would come back a couple of years hence) and also her illness, which I found out years later does affect the mood, the temper, and the tolerance to your son having a girlfriend. 

That was the issue. My mum did not care for Soozle. Not at all. Despite her being - I would have thought - kind of perfect daughter-in-law material. She was nice, respectful, responsible, she had a job. 

But she presaged the departure of another member of the household, and mum got ahead of the game by announcing she wanted my house keys and that I should clear out my room. 

It's not an easy thing, having a huge row like that with your family. They all fell into line behind mum (even dad, which upset me most of all). I remember spending months crippled with anxiety, grief and guilt and did every evasive mental manoeuvre I could think of to not think.

I remember going to the video store religiously, and working my way through every single movie I could find. I would watch the entire James Bond collection and the movie "Throw Momma From The Train" over and over. 

I do not think there was any hidden message there, I just liked the movie. 

And then it was Xmas time. Needless to say, I was not invited home for Xmas dinner. 

However, I did get an invite to Scunthorpe! 

Okay. I know it's not exactly somewhere people get excited about. Or even apathetic about. People tend to hate Scunthorpe. There, I said it. 

Understandable really. It was kind of a sh*thole. I remember this vividly as we took Kenwardly Road toward Lincolnshire. Things got shabbier, more industrial and more run-down. The steel industry had been another decimated by Thatcherism and so Scunthorpe seemed like a town barely hanging together when we arrived. Just a collection and run-down shops and pubs that barely serviced the people who had been left behind.

The reason we went was that me and Soozle were invited to spend Xmas with Soozle's Nana Barnsdale and George. 

It was always Nana B. and George. I never fully go to grips with the family history on this. Grandad Barnsdale was apparently not at all a nice man who b*ggered off sometime back in the 1960's and his mate from the pub George... had um... "consoled" Nana B. 

It made sense. They were a lovely old couple in their late 60's when I met them. George was an ex-builder and had the requisite building injuries including a bad limp. It turned out that Nana B's first name was "Lilah" but George just referred to her as "Lal" whenever they spoke. 

And they were convivial and clearly liked each other. They loved animals and talked with affection about their daft Dalmatian "Lady" who was now long gone. There was now only one pet in the house, a big fluffy white cat who spent all her time in the garage with George, watching as he kept his old Morris Minor in mint condition. 

The fluffy white cat decided she liked me and spent all her time on my lap. I was just happy to have a job. 

Like many builders, George had spent a lot of time fine-tuning his house. So it was one of those weird houses that had external windows in the middle of internal walls. It gave it character. Plus, their house was full of old furniture. 

"You should go on the Antiques Roadshow," suggested Soozle. 

"Don't get any ideas," retorted Nana B. "There's none of that worth a penny. I just lacquered some old sideboard out of the charity shop until it shone."

"I call it a 'Sickly Grin'," said George. 

To be honest, I preferred sitting out in the artium at the back. I use the word advisedly. It was a bogged up room roofed with corrugated plastic. When the rain poured down it was like Ringo was beating the crap out of the roof. But it was relaxing to sit in there, with a white cat on my lap, shedding all over my trousers, while I listened to Radio 2 (which was on permanently). The seating in there was old church pews, rescued from a skip, and re-covered with cushions.

They seemed to like me. It felt nice. I was very shy back then and my ego had taken a battering. I was quiet, but helpful. I chopped vegetables for Xmas dinner. I listened to their stories. 

They were pretty active, making the most of their pensioner bus-passes. They talked of days at the seaside and at stately houses. Their stories always ended with, "and then we 'ad a salad," I noted.

It was like Nana B. measured the success of all such adventures by the quality of the lunch they got at the end. The salad seemed the height of luxury.

Speaking of salad, I think the most important thing I did in Scunthorpe was EAT THE FOOD.

You have to remember, I'm still a teenager in 1987. I had the hollow legs and the skinny frame of all teenage boys. Nana B took it as a personal challenge to FILL ME. And I was happy to help. Her Xmas dinner was prestigious and her pudding overflowed with custard. But I put it all away with no effort whatsoever. It made her so happy.

Afterwards, because it was the 80's we still did that whole thing of gathering around the telly for the big Xmas shows on our amazing four channels while eating Quality Street. I remember the bogged-up theme continued in their living room. They had a coffee table covered in lacquered thruppenny bits. 

I just had a look at the tv schedule for that year. It featured "Rolf Harris Cartoon Time" and "Jim'll Fix It For Christmas". 

Jeez, these schedules did not age well.

There was also "The Lenny Henry Christmas Special". 

"We should watch that, I've 'eard it's fairly 'ilarious," enthused Nana B. 

That amused me at the time. But she was right. It wasn't VERY hilarious. Just a little bit. Fairly hilarious. Then it was time for "It'll Be Alright On Christmas Night". 

And then an early night. These were old people after all. I remember lying there in the dark listening to the pair of them snore from right down the other end of the hallway. They both complained about each other's snoring, which was a little hypocritical. They both sounded like old cars with knackered gearboxes to me. 

But it was still nice. I remember marvelling at just how calm and happy I felt being there. It was the first time in ages. Just being in Scarborough made me anxious. Nana B proudly showed me around her tiny little garden. Small though it was, she grew all sorts in there. Tomatoes, grapes, pears - and all of it put into jars and back on the table for Xmas dinner. 

I remember looking down the driveway and seeing Scunthorpe out there. I'm sure it's worse now but even then it was horrible. Shops with steel shutters, litter everywhere, horrid little Neds roaming the streets. 

And then I turned back and looked at this peaceful little Shangri-La George and Lal had created for themselves. It was the perfect place to escape the horrible situation back at home. And I remember it being one of the happiest Xmases I ever had. 

We had a couple more Xmases there. I remember sitting in the atrium out back, with Ringo playing the roof above my head and a white cat on my lap when the news of Lockerbie came through on the Radio 2 news in 1988. But in the peace of that house, I felt protected from the horror of it all. 

Over the years there were other old people events too, like steam fairs and what have you. They came to visit us for Easter and I got to repay the favour and tried to feed them. And then we 'ad a salad.

(That was Nana B's Scunthorpe accent. I loved the fact that she even wrote with it. Soozle would get birthday cards from her saying, "'Dear Soozle, 'appy birthday love Nana B.")

I have very fond memories of Nana B and George. 

But the unfortunate thing about separation and divorce is that you divorce whole families and separate from people you cared about, even if you weren't married to them. So I think the last time I saw Nana B and George was 1997. 

I heard about their deaths in the early 2000's but didn't get to go to a funeral or anything. 

As I look out at our tiny little garden full of birds, it occurs to me we create our own places of calm. And that I'm now way closer in age and mentality to George than I am to 1987 me. I nap a lot and I repeat stories and I love my big fluffy cat.

It's probably old age and I accept it.

I'm nowhere near as un'appy or anxious as 1987 me. And maybe that's old age too. Things in perspective are just not as terrifying.

I'm not free of stress and anxiety now, of course. I expect none of us are. But there is a place and time in my mind to which I can retreat when I'm upset. I can step outside and sniff the air and think of my own Shangri-La in Scunthorpe. 

S.